Chapter 3 The Demise of the Bandits (Thanks to Guang Yu An 0516 for the 10,000 Reward)

Words : 2228 Updated : Sep 12th, 2025

Opening Chapter 88 of "Why do I have so many masters?": ``` Continue your adventure at empireDark clouds covered the sky, obscuring the bright moon. Du Zhanpeng,... Read on for more!

``` Continue your adventure at empireDark clouds covered the sky, obscuring the bright moon. Du Zhanpeng, hugging his spear, leaned against the wall, hoping to shield himself from the life-threatening cold wind of winter. A torch burned by his side, providing just enough heat to keep him from succumbing to hunger and weakness like those imprisoned, who would fall asleep in the chill and never wake up again. However, the old man they had captured a few days ago was an exception... An old cripple, yet he managed to endure for so long in this weather; he must have a tough life. He exhaled a cloud of white breath. His companions nearby were not interested in chatting in this weather, nor was he. Winter is a lazy season, especially right after the New Year. His mind would uncontrollably drift to his child and wife back home. Around this time each year, they would usually huddle by the stove, roasting two sweet potatoes until their skins turned crispy golden and oozed that thick, honey-like substance—he always found them the most delicious. His son loved it the most. The New Year had passed; his boy must have grown taller. A faint smile appeared at the corner of Du Zhanpeng's mouth. He breathed on his hands and rubbed them together, his thoughts becoming clearer. He needed to work diligently here, earn trust, and then take the opportunity to escape. He had put in a lot of effort lately, and his superiors had taken notice. He should soon be able to go out on watch alone, which would give him a chance to slip away. So he would put in more effort... Searᴄh the Novelƒire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. Just then, an unusual scent seemed to drift through the air. Du Zhanpeng paused to search his memory, but couldn't pinpoint it, growing increasingly uneasy. He turned around, intending to alert his comrade keeping watch with him. The dark clouds dispersed. His companion, who should have been resting, had collapsed on the ground at some unknown time. In front of him, a figure that seemed to come from the eighteenth layer of hell raised its head. Beneath the ferocious Dragon Beast mask, a pair of eyes, starkly black and white, quietly observed him. The throat of the fallen man at its feet oozed a thick, scarlet fluid, and a icy fear instantly gripped Du Zhanpeng's heart. He instinctively wanted to scream in horror, but a shadow suddenly flashed before his eyes. Under the cover of night, darker than the darkness itself, a piercing pain struck his throat, and he plunged into the abyss. As the clouds parted, the stars and moon shone in the sky. Such a night was unsuited for murder, more fitting for the disclosure of crimes. Wang Anfeng moved through the stronghold like a ghost, the bandits being cunning but never imagining that they had invited the angel of death themselves. The Taoist Nine Palaces Step enabled him to avoid detection and move within their blind spots. Once burdened by chains weighing a thousand pounds, he could walk through the snow as if it were nothing. Now unencumbered, moving silently and leaving no trace in the snow was hardly difficult. Shaolin Changquan wasn't meant for killing. But the direct thrust taught by Mr. Ying, infused with Thunder Vigor, didn't require a second move to kill a man amidst the biting cold wind. At that moment, Wang Anfeng was eerily calm and rational, hidden in the darkness, like a martial artist not rushing his moves. After each kill, he would effortlessly conceal the body within the dark crevices, quietly and effectively proceeding with his inspection. He did not plan to spare any of them. As time passed, his actions grew slower, and one by one the bandits died by a single unseen strike, none able to fight back. Up until now, the central building of the Great Stronghold was still brightly lit. The coarse laughter of men mixed with the painful cries of women. The flickering light of the dying candles threw twisted shadows onto the windows and doors as if cast by evil spirits, soon to be swallowed by the dark ink of night. A streak of purple lightning flashed over the green bamboo, searing the flesh and emitting a hellish stench. ......................... Dawn gradually broke, and the old man sat slumped in the cage amidst the cold wind, lifeless as a corpse. Consciousness blurred with the wind, and just as he was about to succumb to darkness, almost instinctively, he grabbed a sharp stone next to him and smashed it violently onto his thigh. A low moan escaped his throat, but it snapped him back to alertness. His body trembled as he gasped for breath, and soon, sweat soaked his filthy white hair, sticking to his wrinkled face. After catching his breath for a moment, he dragged his uncooperative right leg, barely making it to the bars. He reached out and picked up the broken ice that had solidified as 'food', trembling as he took it inside. The ice was dirty and even contained things like straw, but the old man didn't even look before stuffing it into his mouth to chew and swallow greedily, along with the rotten food. With something in his stomach, he regained a bit of vigor and leaned against the cold wall, gazing into the distance. The young man had been taken away hours ago, his chances looking grim. "My great Great Qin... my vast Great Qin..." The old man clenched his teeth, a hint of sourness in his nose. The sky gradually brightened. A winter sunrise was an icy shade, pale, bitterly cold, and a chilling blue that made one's bones shiver, spreading far across the horizon. The old man exhaled a breath of frost, knowing the warm sun would soon rise, looking forward to it but feeling even more distressed. Outside, the sun was about to rise... But could the sun truly dispel the revolting things within this stronghold? The sunlight scattered down as usual, the winter sun's faint warmth precious nonetheless. The old man reached out his right hand, trembling, seeking a sliver of warmth. It seemed the dawn brought the chirping of birds from afar, faint at first but soon growing persistent, piercing, and mournful, unceasing to the ear. The old man's body suddenly stiffened. Listening to the bird calls, which grew clearer whether far or near, he confirmed they weren't a figment of his imagination. His eyes slowly widened, and his lips trembled: ``` "Here they come… here they come…" "They've finally groped their way here…" The old man wanted to smile, but tears fell from the corners of his eyes. He leaned back and sat down, rolled up the leg of his trousers at the right leg, revealing a ghastly new wound. He grasped the sharp stone with his right hand, took a light breath, and stabbed it fiercely into his right leg. The wound that had just been healing tore open, his already pale face almost losing the last trace of color. The stone in his hand fell to the ground, its sharp edge covered with fresh blood and pus, a rather glaring sight. The old man, trembling, reached into the wound to probe it. His body shivered uncontrollably with the intense pain, yet for fear of alerting the bandits, he could not make the slightest sound, silently enduring the severe agony. The gaunt body of the old man suddenly trembled violently, a muffled growl escaping his throat. At last, he pulled out a delicately crafted object; his right hand was covered in blood. After taking a few breaths, while the pain was most intense, the old man clenched his teeth and used his palm to support himself on the ground, struggling inch by inch to the mouth of the cage. The cries of cuckoos bleeding evoked an increasingly mournful sound, echoing in the distance. His head struck the icy, rust-covered bars as he barely propped himself up, the old man's lips curling into a smile with hate-filled, venomous eyes. He reached out of the cage with his right hand, and with all the strength in his left, he pulled fiercely. The blood and pus did not hinder the intricacy of the mechanism; flames ignited, roasting the old man's palm, yet he only felt a wave of warmth. The fireworks ascended into the sky and exploded loudly, dispersing the darkness that had not yet fully dissipated, forming into a huge ancient seal character, its strokes fierce, bright red like blood. Qin! The cries of the cuckoos bleeding came to a sudden halt. The old man turned over and lay down on the ground, the intense pain in his leg persisting, yet he was already familiar with it. He had coated the nearby fireworks with coarse salt and then inserted them into the wound he had cut in his thigh. Along the way, he had struggled against the effects of anesthetic with this excruciating pain, carefully dropping markers. Three days had passed, a full three days. At last… He thought the markers might have been scattered by wild beasts and they wouldn't be able to find him, but unexpectedly, he had won the bet! The old man laughed heartily, his face showing no fear. No regrets in death. ......... The chill wind was biting; one by one, tall figures dressed in the simple attire of hunters silently converged from the surrounding woods, gathering where the Qin character remained long in the sky. The leading man held a saber, his eyebrows stern, his body covered with frost and dew, yet still resolute. The bandits were astute; they had to shed their iron armor and enter the forest separately, like ordinary hunters, looking for markers. Fearing to startle the snake by beating the grass, they did not light fires at night. A full three days, without sleep or rest! Before the blood-red Qin character faded, eighty Great Qin soldiers stormed into the Great Stronghold, only to find many corpses strewn about. The man in the lead, with a tiger-like gaze, swept through the area and, upon discovering the traces of the old man, rushed over. With a whoosh of his handheld horizontal saber, he slashed diagonally twice, splitting open the cage. When the old man saw the figure, he first relaxed, joy surfacing on his face, but then it turned to anger. He raised his hand and struck hard on the face of the man supporting him, grabbed his collar with one hand, and with his trembling right hand, pointed to the suspended corpses, his eyes blood red as he asked tremblingly: "Why have you come so late…" "Why have you come so late?!!" The man took the slap without flinching, opened his mouth, and said: "I have arrived late and am willing to accept military punishment." "Military punishment, my arse. I'm no longer your superior, just a frail strategist with no right to punish you…" The old man stepped back a few paces, took a couple of breaths, snatched a waist saber from the soldiers nearby, and shouted hoarsely: "Slay all these scum!" As his voice fell, he coughed violently several times, leaning on a Great Qin battle saber, staggering but refusing to fall. On that day, eighty Qin soldiers, clothed in plain garments and wielding sabers, entered the stronghold only to find the corpses of the bandits. From the ordinary low-ranking soldiers to the seven leaders, all were killed. The manner of death was uniform, with a gaping hole in each throat. The bandit leader Yuan Yuanji died in the large house he had bought with money, his eyes wide open in death, holding his own saber as if he had spotted an adversary but had been slain before he could draw his weapon. Beside him lay a beautiful unconscious woman, her delicate body carefully covered with a black garment. The garment was entirely black except for the cuffs and collar, which were pure white, untainted by any dust. The old man pushed through the crowd, staggering with a saber to where the bandit leader lay. His chest heaved violently; with a smirk, he said: "Yuan Yuanji, old boy, I am here on behalf of the hundreds of countryfolk who died unjustly to pay you a late New Year's visit." After these words, he summoned his strength, and the Great Qin battle saber whistled as he slashed down on the body of the bandit leader. The martial artist was strong, and only a slash was made. However, the old man seemed not to notice and continued to hack and chop relentlessly. The flashing blade reflected the old man's fierce, terrifying expression, much like a demon or a crazed killer. He chopped for who knows how long until the battle saber fell to the ground. Only when his hand trembled from weakness did he stop. The old man gasped for air, looking at the nearly obliterated detestable face, then collapsed on the ground and wept bitterly. PS: Thank you to Light and Dark 0516 for the generous reward. Here's a lengthy chapter, with more to come after we launch (clasped hands)

Chapter 3 The Demise of the Bandits (Thanks to Guang Yu An 0516 for the 10,000 Reward)

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